| Submitted by: Ren Withnell, United Kingdom |
| Submission Date: 02 October 2005 |
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I return to the tent about 1800, nearly 2 hours after I let my beloved helmet ride off into the sun. No helmet in the tent and no yellow fireblade. Cheeky bastards! I don't mind an hour or so to go and get supplies but the piss taking bastards seem to have gone out for a big trip, with my helmet. I'm livid and stomp back to the main arena and relate my story to the stag do crew. They tell me I'm a plonker but it'll be ok. I'm struggling to think straight but I relax and watch a highlight of the evening for me. On the stage are 20 to 30 ladies with drums of various sizes and types banging out rhythms lead by some energetic young chap. I sit there, awestruck and moved by the rising and pulsating beat from the drums. It's simple thing but so powerful and lively I'm captivated. I wish I was sat here with someone to share this with, someone who could feel what I'm feeling now.
I return to the tent about 2000 and check to see if my helmet is there. It is, along with the yellow fireblade, but no sign of man 1 or man 2. The sense of relief is comparable to that of finding a campsite on my day of hell. I zip up and go for a wander round. I'm thinking how cheeky are these people and why did he not bring his own helmet, do they know how I felt or are these things normal in this dry, arid and inhospitable climate. My feet are killing me now. Over the last 2 nights and days all this wandering is taking it's toll. Most folks have brought along or purchased sandals to keep feet cool but I cannot purchase sandals and wear them. They would need to go to the cobblers to have a thicker sole put on the left sandal, otherwise I'd be limping badly and only able to manage a few hundred yards. As it is with my big walking boots the blisters on my soles are making me limp and only able to walk short distances before I need to stop anyhow. I remove my boots to check the blisters and let some air get to them. It is most painful.
I return to the tent about 2130 to get a t-shirt as the air is finally cooling down now. I open the tent and let out a load angry scream. My bloody helmet is not where it should be. I look around and the fireblade is gone too. The cheeky effing stupid evil tw....onkers have taken my helmet again. No asking, no may we, no courtesy or consideration, just taken it as though it's theirs to use whenever they want. I'm not livid, livid does not even begin to describe the anger I'm feeling now. I am the king of self control, I don't drink, don't like to make a scene and I'm always looking for the quiet life. But today I'm screaming English curses to these effing Portuguese ignorant and cheeky bastards. I'm outside my tent kicking the dirt and flailing my arms. People are starting to come out their tents or stopping as they pass by to look at the sunburnt English bloke ranting like a demon who's lost his powers and cursing in as many languages as he can think of, and some he doesn't even know.
It takes a few minutes to realise what sort of an idiot I look like so I move off, not sheepishly which would be my normal way. I stomp and scowl at the onlookers, shouting at one big hairy fella "what?!?!" as he makes some comment to his partner. I'm confused, at a loss what to do. I want instant retribution and resolution but it is not forthcoming, which makes me worse. I want to rip the head wearing my helmet right off and stuff it up the arse of its owner. I consider telling the Moto Clube Faro officials of my plight, but what would they say "You lent it to them you fool", in Portuguese of course. I could go out and look for it, but I have no helmet to wear to ride the streets. The more things I think of and the more reasons I see they are pointless make me worse and worse.
I find the stag do crew and relate my story through clenched teeth. I think G is actually quite surprised to see me like this. We talk with 2 Portuguese guys who speak good English and they laugh at my plight and seem fairly confident my helmet will return. I am sure it will return, my objection is to folks taking things without asking, assuming my lending it once means they can borrow it whenever they see fit. I cannot settle, I cannot have fun whilst this is running around and around in my head. I excuse myself and wander on my sore blistered feet and curse everything. Curse these bloody dirty foreigners, curse this draining heat, curse these stupid bikers drinking themselves into numbness, curse these bloody feet, curse this country of rubble and rubbish, curse this country of crap food, curse their stupid languages, curse their ugly women and curse everything!
Sometime around 2300 I head back to the tent. I don't know why, I'm never going to sleep with this spinning round my head, with my body tense and twisted, with outstanding issues unresolved and without my effing helmet. As I walk back I spot the yellow fireblade. Man 2 is riding, man 1 is on the back but he's not got my helmet on! Oh sh..ugar, where the effing hell is it? The bike behind has a pillion and man 3 is wearing my beautiful helmet resplendent with warning triangles. The bikes pass by and I run after. This is perhaps the first time I have run properly since I re-learnt to walk after my accident. Even in my angry state I'm surprised and pleased at the fact I can run, even if it is somewhat clumsily.
"CASQUE...CASQUE you miserable effin bastards!!!!" I shout as load as I can. "CASQUE!!!...who the effing hell do you think you are..." A tirade of swearwords and curses pour forth from my mouth, I have totally lost control. 4 puzzled Portuguese men look at me frothing from my mouth. Man 1 approaches and mutters "...sorry...thank you" and man 3 returns my helmet and offers me his hand. Instinctively I go to shake it then pull back and continue my foul-mouthed curses and questions. I'm looking for blood, I'm actually looking for a fight in a foreign country with 4 men all bigger than myself and the support of a whole country behind them. Of course they do not understand a word I am saying, it's my body language and tone of voice they recognise. They simply keep on repeating "...sorry..." until I run out of breath and they walk away.
I put my helmet into the inner tent this time and cover it with my sleeping bag. I zip up and limp away slowly on my blistered feet. I return to the main arena and Nazareth are on stage. Hell, I don't even know who Nazareth are let alone any of their music so I wander round some more and eventually find myself at the stag do crew's tents. G, the stag, is in bed but 4 of the others are outside finishing off drinks and chatting. Again I relay the rest of the story. Much discussion ensues about the attitude towards property here compared to home and how you really must stick up for yourself no matter the odds. I agree but I know deep inside I will always be a wimp. My strengths lie elsewhere.
Day 8
I wake and it's already hot. The noise of bikes passing by, folks talking in many tongues and engines being bounced off the rev limiter is becoming all too familiar now. I have calmed down now. I still look to my left to make sure my "casque" is next to me. I also notice a distinctly sweaty smell coming from myself and the clothes strewn around me. I don't fancy the showers, they are cold and out in the open. I cannot smell like this all day otherwise no-one will talk to me. I get up and take the clothes to the taps and trays and clean them as best I can with soap and cold water. I return for my towel and prepare to brave the showers.
I'm not really body shy. I have a very average body, not fat or thin, not short or tall, not muscle-bound or stringy and my manhood is remarkably average too. Wearing my shorts I turn on a tap attached to a steel pipe that sprouts from another larger steel pipe. The cold water strikes my feet and I let out a little yelp. Those already in the other showers laugh in an understanding and sympathetic manner. I slowly dip parts of my body into the cold stream and make chilly noises that match those around me. I wash but keep my body out of the stream as much as I can. Eventually I remove my shorts and brazen it out by carrying on as though this is the most normal thing in the world, standing in front of hundreds of men and women stark bollock naked and yelping as the cold water touches my body. It finally crosses my mind the effect cold has on the male part of my anatomy and I look down at my shrivelled wedding tackle. I rush to finish and hide my pathetic excuse of a penis and put my shorts back on. I take a little comfort that others brave enough to go naked must be suffering the same effect...I hope.
I go out and about on the bike again. I'm looking for a hardware store to purchase some glue to stick the glass back onto the speedo. I’m also going to treat myself to a McDonalds, I am in need of something tasty and recognisable to my pallet. Again I ride out into the hinterland of Faro, again into the dry, dusty, unfinished and deserted parts. I ride out towards Tavira, and a thought strikes me, hard. When I get home, what am I to tell people about this place? What am I going to write for my website report? The problem is it is not very interesting. The scenery between the towns is more of the same golden brown, dry, arid land. The towns are fairly non-descript when I’ve already described other towns. The roads look the same and the people look the same.
There is nothing to report. It reminds me of the cities I know back home. All the major cities I’ve been to in the UK look the same, feel the same and smell the same. Centres are full of tall buildings interspersed with older buildings looking somewhat overwhelmed. Near the centre will be a mix of derelict, run down housing estates and shopping areas then around the corner will be large houses and executive cars. Further out, normally on the north side, towns and suburbs filled with cheaper basic housing, and the south side will have the yuppie areas and homes for the wealthy. If I fell out of a spaceship into a big city I would struggle to tell you which one I was in. And the same applies here it seems. I would know I was in Spain or Portugal from the style and character of the place, but to say which place it was would require some identification such as a sign. I give up looking for something original and head back to Faro.
On the way I see a large shop in amongst run down houses and dry wasteland that has wood and bricks stacked in its yard. It also sells petrol! How strange and lucky, a DIY come petrol shop. I fill up, pay, find super-glue and gaffer tape, pay again then leave. Perfect, absolutely perfect. Riding back I think about how fortunes can change from one moment to the next. Last night my helmet went walkabout, this morning I had nothing to report and now I find a place that meets my requirements exactly.
I then go to the shopping mall I had visited yesterday. I don’t even bother to look for local food or some enlightening cultural experience, I head straight for McDonalds. Inside it looks slightly different from home but I order a hamburger, fries and a cola from a smartly dressed youth who speaks perfect English. I sit down to eat my meal and wonder why it looks different from the McDonalds back home, perhaps it’s got something to do with this shop being a Burger King? I laugh at my stupidity, they all share a common eating area, I’d gone to the wrong counter that was all. I don’t care and my taste buds cannot tell the difference anyhow. I trough my food and it tastes so good. If I ever travel the world, I’ll have to miss out countries that don’t have McDonalds, or for that matter Burger King.
Back at the rally site I am directed by the ever-present police back into the site and by the ever-present Moto Clube Faro officials back to my pitch. I get out my tools, clean the area to be glued with the trusty file on my trusty leatherman and glue the glass into place. It’s not beautiful and the metal rim is discarded as unnecessary but it does exactly what I want it to do. I add a few strips of gaffer tape just in case the glue does not hold.
Full of the smugness of a bodge well done, I go for another wander. This time I look at the bike show. I’m looking for something original. |
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